Southerner
by aD1990
Summary: Chapter 4 is up! Glimpses of the key moments in Doc Holliday's life. This is a fiction based on historical events. The purpose of this story is to entertain, so I truly hope you'll enjoy this. Please, go ahead and review! I don't own the characters.
1. Twist of fate

**Southerner**

**1. Twist of fate**

The young man was on the train to Dallas, dreaming. His thoughts were towards his dear mother. She had passed away after months of pain. Her terrible disease was quite common in those days and the young John Henry couldn't get his beloved mother out of his mind. She had been very close to him, his only son, and he missed her very much. He was more distant from his father, and especially since the latter had remarried shortly after John Henry's mother's passing. This hastened marriage had displeased the young man.

He coughed several times. The coughings were painful in his chest and throat. The fits occurred on regular basis and John Henry had visited a doctor although he had easily foreseen the conclusion of the physician for obvious reasons: his dear mother had died coughing her lungs out. And the dreadful diagnosis of the doctor had been stated as if it had been a death sentence to the young John Henry Holliday, 21 years old: he suffered from consumption, a common term for tuberculosis.

I prefer to call it consumption, though, John Henry thought. After all it is indeed a good definition of the disease: it consumes you from the inside, burnin' your lungs until you end up coughing them and your guts out. Goddamn illness!

Learning he had contracted the tuberculosis was indeed terrible for the young man who had planned his life, working as a dentist in his home in Georgia with his family and above all his love Mattie. She was his first cousin and meant the world to him. They were both very much in love and John Henry had planned to marry her. Although intermarriage was frowned upon -and especially in catholic families- it was pretty common at that time, in the South, after the Civil War, for the families had been scattered. However, fate had decided otherwise: John Henry would never marry Mattie. His doctor, who happened to be his uncle, had advised him to leave Georgia and head West where the dry climate might relieve his consumption.

"John Henry, you have to understand -and I hate to be the one telling you this- that your condition is already quite advanced," he had told him. "My only advice to you is: leave Georgia. Go to Texas. It's not that far and as soon as you're cured, you'll come back to us." The voice of his uncle was soft and sad. John Henry knew very well -by experience with his mother- that tuberculosis was not something you could easily overcome. This was a lethal sickness.

"But... I can't leave Mattie behind..."

"As I said, you'll come back once healed. She'll be waitin' for you, son, that is my promise to you."

"You're right, uncle. I know you're right, but all this is happening so fast, I..." John Henry's voice was but a whisper and he felt tears his eyes. He repressed them at once.

"I know it's hard to hear, John Henry, but I suggest you'd try everything to get better. The humid air of the South is all but recommended to tuberculars. I hear the western states offer hot springs to people in your condition. You should go ahead and give it a try."

The young Holliday nodded. His uncle was right. Still, he couldn't bring himself to abandon his present life. "This is all very sudden... An hour ago, I still thought of myself as a fine dentist and now, what will become of me?" he said, absent.

"In order for you to get better, John, you will have to follow my advices. Now do I have your full attention? Because this is something you'll have to remember always." The look on his uncle's face was stern and serious as he sat in front of John Henry, behind his desk. The young man looked at him and waited him to go on. "I want you to get a lot of rest on your journeys West. You will have to avoid any stress or excitement, you'll have to eat nutritious meal and cut out alcohol. No smoking either. These vices would destroy you. You won't have any intimate relations with women. Now, this is important. Not regarding Mattie but your frail health and lungs. You'll easily understand all this for you'll soon have trouble breathing and you'll have difficulties performing exhausting activities. The sun and the dry air of the West will do you good, however."

Holliday chuckled on his seat, back in the train to Dallas. The recollection of this last conversation with his uncle was something he'd gladly take out of his mind and forget. But the worst memory he had was his goodbye to Mattie. Her beautiful face was still in his mind and her bright smile illuminated his gloomy mood and tore him apart at the same time because he knew this was a sight he would most certainly never see again. After all, who could recover from tuberculosis, one of the most lethal diseases in 1873?

"I'm leavin', darlin'," John had told Mattie as he caressed her soft cheek. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight.

"Leaving, John?" she asked, tears rolling down her fair face.

He nodded and repressed the tears himself. God, why was it so hard to bid farewell to the love of his life? "I cant' stay, Mattie. Your father told me so himself. I promise if I'd have the choice, I'd rather stay. Because I love you. I always have and always will. You remember that, girl." He gently kissed her forehead and then her lips. She hugged him tenderly.

"I can't let you go, John. I love you too so much... Maybe I could come with you?"

"Now, I don't believe that would be a good idea, Mattie. Besides, I'll be back soon."

"Do you promise?"

He nodded. But in the truth, he knew this was a lie. God, how he wished he was wrong, though... "I'm gonna miss this..." he said, nostalgic, as he gestured to the familial plantation and more generally the state of Georgia.

"I know, John, I know. Who wouldn't...?" she answered, just as nostalgic. Georgia, as any southern state, had this kind of magic and brightness in it which made it unique and unforgettable. Once you got there -and even more so if you were born there- you had difficulties leaving it. John H. Holliday, a refined southern gentleman, was deeply in love with his home state and knew he'd always miss it. Georgia would never leave his heart and mind, no matter where he'd go. After all, this special thing about the southern states had gotten the Confederates a war in which they had fought hard to preserve their beloved country. A Southerner at heart, John Henry would work hard in whatever he would undertake and never let anyone disrespect him.

Holliday's refine southern qualities mixed with his refine southern psychotic look at life would make him one of the deadliest gunslinger of the Wild West.


	2. Rebirth

**2. Rebirth**

September 1873. The young doctor John Holliday had moved to Dallas, Texas, where he had opened a dental office, associating himself with John A. Seegar, a Doctor in Dental Surgery.

The doctors had given him a year left to live, therefore was he starting a new life. If he'd miss her until his death, his cousin Mattie would eventually get over his departure and marry a fine young man ready to take care of her and love her dearly, just as he did. At least, this was what he hoped for her. She was all that ever mattered to him. Leaving her was almost as hard as learning his near death. And both of these had actually been carried out on the very same day.

John felt all alone and lost. And to say the truth, he doubted he might get better, even in the West... But like his uncle had told him, he had to give it a try.

Working as a dentist was getting harder and harder. Indeed, his repeated coughing fits occurring during an operation had scared and driven away several customers and he had difficulties earning money.

One night, he had been to the town's saloon to play some poker. He had learnt to play back in Atlanta while he was studying and he had always had easiness winning this game. He was swift and smart. Heading west meant getting acquainted with danger and John's uncle had offered him two brand new guns to defend himself. Holliday's first shooting occurred in Valdosta, at his uncle's, where he had found "Negroes" swimming in his favorite swimming hole. Outraged, John Henry had fired over their heads. With a bit more practice, John would have no difficulties using the six-shooter well, for he was fast and precise. With his two guns, John didn't look so frail and harmless anymore. His expression was stern and melancholic, and one could easily see bravery and determination in his features. He wasn't afraid of anything because he was doomed to die young. The poor fellow bore a death sentence on his shoulders and he had nothing to lose, therefore he would live on the edge, fearing nothing but his terrible sickness.

Hell, if I'm doomed to die, might as well be a quick and painless death than a lingering and painful one, he thought to himself. This would become his creed until the day of his death. He would live by this code, ready to die any minute. This made him one of the most feared gunmen in the west.

He entered the smocky and crowdy saloon. The guys were playing cards or drinking at the bar. John went to order a shot of whiskey. The man already had a strong tendency to drink. Whiskey eased the pain in his chest and helped covering the coughings.

"Why, ain't it our beloved dentist!" a drunken man said, putting his hand on Holliday's shoulder. The latter disliked the attitude.

"Remove your hand, sir," he said calmly.

"Come on, Doc, you gotta loosen up a bit," the man retorted. He must have been ten years older and way stronger than John, but Holliday didn't mind and wasn't afraid of the man.

"I just hate to be touched, is all. Now, I'll repeat my request if needed," he retorted, just as calmly.

"Alright, alright," the man said, removing his hand. "Hey, guys, did ya know the doc was so _touchy_?" They all laughed. "Come on, Doctor, lemme buy you a drink and let's call it even."

"That's very kind of you and I gladly accept your invitation," John answered.

"There's somethin' that bothers me, Doc. Where you get that fancy talk and accent from?"

"I'm from Georgia."

"Hell, that's what I thought! A Georgian. I am from Georgia myself!"

"Really? What part, if I may ask?"

"Savannah. But I left Georgia when I was six. A long time ago. My parents moved out west and they raised me in New Mexico."

"Don't mind him, Doc," another man at the bar said. "Whenever he's drunk, he keeps talkin' endlessly."

John started coughing and everybody stared at him, for the slight piano in the back was not loud enough to cover the sound.

"Now, these coughing fits have become quite troubling, haven't they, Doc?" another man asked, scrutinizing Holliday. That nickname of Doc was something John was getting used to. He'd been called this for months now, due to his profession.

"Whatever do you mean by that?" he asked the man, slightly mad. He hated it when people made remarks on his health condition.

"I heard these happen mostly when you're operating someone..."

The bartender, feeling the atmosphere in his saloon was becoming strained, announced the drinks were on the house, which pleased everyone and the argue was soon forgotten.

"Say, Doc, I heard you play poker mighty well..." a man said. "Wanna play some with me?"

He had played several times already and was particularly good at it, which had made his reputation of a formidable opponent and an agile gambler. At only 21, John "the Doc" Holliday was already feared in some parts of America.

"John..." the Doctor Seegar began. "Will you please take care of the next patient? My wife awaits me, we are to go get a dinner together tonight."

"Of course, Doctor. No problem."

"Thank you, boy. Have a good night, then."

"And have a good evenin', Sir."

Seegar left the office and John went to the waiting room. There, Butch Mitchell, alone, was reading the town's newspaper.

"Good evenin', Sir," John said, motioning to his office.

"Hey, Doc. Thanks."

After a look at the man's mouth, John spotted the damaged tooth. "Ah, yes..." he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to take this one out. That tooth looks pretty bad. May I ask what's happened?"

"I had somethin' stuck in it for a while. When I finally took it off, the damn tooth was hurting as hell, Doc. You're sure you gotta to extract it?"

"I don't see no other way, Mr Mitchell. Don't you worry, though, I'll be quick and swift." He coughed a little.

"Now, I don't fear your skills at removing teeth, Doc, only..."

The man was talking about John's damn coughings. "Open wide!" he said, mad and pretending he didn't understand the man's obvious insinuations. Mitchell did as he was told but before the Doc could do anything, a terrible coughing fit overtook him.

"Hum, I... I gotta go, Doc. Sorry..." Mitchell said, running out of the office.

When the fit finally stopped, the man was gone and John had lost another patient and money. Obviously, he had to focus on another way of earning his life, for these damn fits seemed to _enjoy_ occurring on the worst moments...

Melancholic, the young doctor decided to go to the saloon and have a drink. And maybe a game of poker, while he was there. Putting on his jacket, he grabbed his guns and knife and left the office.

Two years had passed and Holliday was improving his skills at gambling, drinking, fighting, smoking and coughing. Getting over the fact that he couldn't remove a tooth anymore, because of the coughing fits, he found a new home in the Dallas' saloon. The barkeeper, Austin, and John Henry -who was now most of the time referred to as "Doc"- didn't get along fine, but until January 2, they had always coped with each other. However, that fine evening, things would change.

"Shit! You've won again, Holliday!" said another gambler at the poker table.

"I believe that's five times in a row, gentlemen," Doc said, proud.

"I'm done for tonight, then," one of the players said, standing up. The others did the same, leaving Doc on his own.

"Well, I guess that's it, then," he said, putting his dark hat back on his head and lightning a cigarette. The man, who had been playing for six hours, was pretty drunk for he had had time to empty numerous whiskey bottles during the game. He walked towards the bar and asked for another drink.

"Yer drunk, Holliday. You'd better get home, now!" Austin said behind his bar.

Naturally, Doc disliked the man telling him what he had to do. "Hell, I didn't see it was so late already!" he slurred with a childish voice. "Pour me some whiskey, bartender," he added, more seriously.

The bartender did as he was told. "We hate cheaters in this town."

The man just couldn't hold his damn tong.

"Stop talkin' is my advice to you," Do said, looking at his refilled glass which he drowned at once. A small cough followed.

"All I'm sayin', is..." Austin began, but Doc grabbed his shirt and pushed him on the bottles behind. Without further talking, they both reached their pistol and several shots we fired, but not one struck its intended target.

The Sheriff's town, George Richmond, ran into the saloon, his guns in his hands. "Raise your hands!" he shouted at Doc and Austin. They did as they were told and dropped their weapons. "You're under arrest. Both of ya! Come on, you know the way to the jail."

The three men walked to the Sheriff's office where they got placed in different cells. They were the only occupants of the prison. Dallas was indeed not known for being a dangerous town and the fights and gun shootings were seldom.

"You'll stay in here for two nights. That'll teach you the lesson. Are ya crazy? Shooting at each other in the middle of a goddamn saloon..."

"Would you have preferred it if we had done so outside the saloon, on the street?" Doc asked, wittily.

The Sheriff didn't answer and rather sat at his desk. Doc laid on the bed and coughed.

Two days later, they were free to go and the first thing Doc did was to go to his hotel room, have a drink and a hot bath. The incident at the saloon had been seen as entertaining by the local citizens, as Doc read on the daily newspaper. Reckon they know nothin' of theater, he thought, slightly surprised by this reception.

Several days later, Jack Boulder, a prominent citizen of Dallas, came knocking on Doc's door. Doc had seen the man before and had never thought any good of him. Boulder was a fat and small man with a purple suit and hat. His large cheeks bore a thick mustache, but no beard. Rumor had it that he would run for the post of Governor of Texas.

Holliday opened the door and found the man, waiting in the hall. "May I be of any assistance, Sir?" He asked Boulder.

"Mr. Holliday, it's nice to see you. May I come in, please?"

Obviously, the man had a plan. "I'd rather not," was Doc's answer. "But we could go to the saloon and have a drink."

"Fine..." Boulder conceded and they headed to the place across the street.

Once they were sited at a table with a bottle of whiskey, Boulder began. "You may have heard, I would like to run for the position of Governor. In order to do that, I will need the help of people I can trust and who are cultivated and full of manners. Now I won't find these people so easily in such a state, but I have found one."

Doc was waiting for the man to go on, but since he didn't, he answered. "You wan't me to help you get the job?"

"That's right. Believe me, John... May I call you John? You are one of a kind in these parts and I truly think you'll be of a great help to the campaign."

After drinking another shot, Doc said "the answer is no. To both. You will not call me John and I won't take any part in your campaign."

Mad, Boulder slammed his fist on the table. "No? This is your final answer? Good Christ, you've only given a thought for half a minute! Surely, you can't be so certain."

"I am."

"God damn you, Holliday! Ever since you've seen me you've disliked me. I'm not afraid of you, boy. Oh, I sure know about your reputation... You're a goddamn quick gunman. You know how to manipulate your pistol. Hell, do you got anything against politicians?"

"All you people do is talk but we need more than this to get things done," Doc answered calmly, but the disgusting man sitting across him was starting to get on his nerves.

The conversation went on a little while and Boulder kept on talking and annoying Doc. Making unpleasant remarks on the great state of Georgia caused the deadly reaction of John Henry who reached for his gun and fired to shots in the man's chest. So much for the Governor position, huh? Doc thought sarcastically as he looked down at the fat little dead man.

If the citizens hadn't reacted outraged when Doc had fired at Austin several days before, this knew shooting had been seen slightly differently. Indeed, people got scared and they decided it was high time this _easy-on-the-trigger_ young man received the punishment he deserved for killing Mr Boulder, a well-thought of citizen. Therefore, a posse was assembled and John Henry Holliday realized he had to leave Dallas before the lawmen would get to him. He knew very well that if they'd lay their hands on him, the rope would be awaiting him and John Henry didn't feel like dying with a noose around his skinny neck. Therefore he left in a hurry to Jacksboro in Jack's County.

The events that occurred in Dallas were only the introduction to Doc Holliday's wild life in the West. But his reputation was already built. The very reputation which would never leave him until the day he died, and then some.


	3. A sweet, soft Hungarian Devil

**3. A sweet, soft Hungarian devil**

_November 1876, Fort Griffin, Texas._

_Dearest Mattie,_

"_When I have fears that I may cease to be_

_Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,_

_Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,_

_Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain;_

_When I behold upon the night's starred face_

_Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,_

_And think that I may never live to trace_

_Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;_

_And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,_

_That I shall never look upon thee more,_

_Never have relish in the faery power_

_Of unreflecting love! -then on the shore_

_Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,_

_Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink."_

_These words, so nicely written by Mr Keats, illustrate well the mood I presently find myself in. I have thought of us, recently. I miss our love. I have trouble finding a reason to go on. I wish you were here, by my side. And I also know it is impossible. I had promised you I would be back home after a year. You must think I am a liar, for, three years later, have I still not reappeared in Georgia. Will I ever come back is impossible to tell, but I fear I will not, for my health hasn't improved since I left. I fear it has even deteriorated. Do not lose hope or faith, though, and keep me in your thoughts and prayers. This way shall I live forever._

_I am currently residing in another town of Texas, Fort Griffin. I have abandoned my dental practice, for it did not pay. It appears my health condition dos not allow me to earn a living in a proper way; therefore have I found a new home in the saloons where, if lucky, I can make money easier._

_The life here, out west, is picturesque, and I know you wouldn't like it. Who would, once they've seen the brightness and life of Georgia -or the South?_

_In your last letter, you asked me to write my father. You know I hate to upset you, but this I cannot do. There is nothing I want to say to him. Tell him that, if he wants to write me, I'll read his letters, but will not answer any of them. We have never understood each other, and we never will._

_I hope all is well in Griffin. I'll write again soon._

_I send you all my love, Martha Ann, and cherish the photograph of you you gave me before I left. It is the last thing that ties me with Georgia, now._

_Sincerely yours,_

_John Henry_

* * *

The air was cool and the climate dry. Good, the young man thought. Precisely the reason why I came here. He was holding the letter he had just written to Mattie. He still wasn't sure wether to send it or not. He wanted her to know more about his life out west, but he wasn't sure his gloomy and morbid thoughts were suitable for her. With a sigh, he went to the post office and delivered the letter to the postman. The latter took it and read the address.

"Georgia!" he exclaimed, surprised. "You're a long way from home, mister."

"Just make sure the letter gets to its intended destination," Doc answered, angered. What business was this of his, where he came from? He left the post office without a smile.

He threw away his cigarette and entered John Shanssey's saloon. The place was crowded and clouded with smoke. Inside, the smell was terrible, a mix of sweat, tobacco and alcohol which was dreadful and Doc winced. He knew he had to get used to this saloon smell if he wanted to be a professional gambler, but still, he doubted anyone could get over such a smell... After ordering a bottle of bourbon, Doc sat down at a poker table and proceeded to make some money, which he desperately needed. Having given up on the dentist profession, he had no steady income on which he could rely anymore but had a hotel room and food to pay for. Therefore, he often "forgot" to eat in order to save his few dollars to pay for a shelter rather than a meal.

After a cough, he lit up a cigarette and observed the players facing him. He didn't know any of them. He was new in town and wasn't sure if he was going to linger in it. Fort Griffin was a tough town, and he considered it was a good thing to stay there a while, for he might learn a thing or two, there, as a gambler. His reputation was made, by now. He had killed quite a few men and had "visited several jails", as he used to say. He was known to hate the law and lawmen, but what made him so feared was his own lack of fear. Death, the one that made everyone tremble, made an exception with Doc Holliday. The "lunger" -as people who tried to get on his nerves called him- did not fear death, which made him almost invincible to his enemies.

He began playing, hoping this game would be fruitful, when he heard loud music coming from behind him. Everyone in the saloon stopped their business and looked at the stage, at the end of the place. There would be a show, huh? Doc thought, amused. He wondered what these uncultured people, out West, would call a show. To the drovers and cowhands of the west, the evening would be terribly enjoyable; to him, who came from civilized and refined parts of the US, it would be incredibly dull. Or at least, he thought it would. He resumed looking at the cards in his hands. Two Jacks was all he had. The two other cards he was holding were crap. He would give those two and ask for two more, hoping the fate would help him, for once.

"Holly crap!" he heard a player shout. Doc looked at the man at once, appalled. The man wore a blue shirt and had a thick dark mustache. He was looking at the stage, mused. Intrigued, Doc turned around again and then, he laid eyes on a beautiful creature dancing among others. The magnificent woman had long curled hair and terribly attractive eyes. She was gorgeous. He noticed then that she, too, was looking at him while dancing. A faint smile appeared on her lips.

"Her name's Kate," Doc heard and turned around to face his table. It was the man in the blue shirt who had spoken, and he was now looking at Doc.

"You were saying?" Doc asked, for he had not realized the man had been talking to him.

"The gal you've been lookin' at. Or should I say that everybody's been lookin' at. Her name's Kate. She's a whore."

That's what Doc loved about such uncultured men: they simply couldn't twist the truth. They absolutely had to say things as they were. Really, had Doc asked if the girl was a whore...?

"Thank you for the informations. How about we resume our game, gentlemen?"

"The name's Turkey Creek Jack Johnson, stranger," the man insisted to go on with the discussion. "People just call me Jack, or Turkey Creek, or Creek," he continued, holding out his hand for Doc to shake it. Doc, ever the gentleman, took it and smiled to the man.

"John Henry Holliday, Sir. But you can call me Doc. Everybody does."

"I know. You're getting' pretty famous, Doc..."

"I don't mean to interrupt the two of ya, but we've gotta game to play," another player said, impatient.

"Indeed, Sir, let's play," Doc answered and they resumed playing.

Meanwhile, on the stage the girls were dancing, accompanied by a slightly out of tune piano. The one that had caught Doc's attention was still looking at him as he was playing poker. This man was so very different from the ones she usually met in such cowtowns. This man was special, unique, and she had to have him. He was elegant, refined and handsome; and looked so clean...

"I bet he smells good," Kate whispered almost to herself.

"What?" her neighbor asked, still dancing.

"That man, at the poker table, in the corner. He looks tidy."

"The man whose back's facin' us, in a black jacket? Oh, no! He's way too skinny!"

"But he's handsome."

"Maybe, but he's got quite a reputation already. They say he's a cold-blooded killer. I wouldn't get into any kind of business with him if I were you..." The girl advised, out of breath for talking while dancing.

Kate smiled. This reputation of his made him all the more attractive to her. At that moment, he turned his face around and looked at her. Their eyes locked together. Maybell had been right, he was skinny, and he didn't look so healthy either. His skin was pale and he looked tired. But there was something about him. Something mysterious and very attractive. Kate simply couldn't resist this man...

When he got back to his room, it was past three a.m. He was exhausted. He had spent much of his day playing cards in the smoky saloon and his chest ached, his cough was dry and painful. Doc laid down on the bed and fell almost immediately asleep. A knock on the door woke him up seconds later. God damn it! Is there no way for a man to take some rest in here? Doc thought, outraged. He opened the door and saw that woman. The beautiful dancer. What did Mr Jack Johnson say her name was...? Kate! What more did he say? Oh, right, that she was a whore... But, damn, she was pretty! Doc thought as they both examined each other for a moment.

Without a word, Kate kissed him on the lips and began undressing. He did not refuse her tenderness and went with it. He kissed her as well and slammed the door. The tiredness he had felt minutes before had vanished and his strength were back, now. He simply couldn't refuse her a passionate and loving moment. He, too, needed to feel some love, for he felt lonely, away from his family and friends. Without even exchanging a word, they got to the bed and shared a pleasureful night.

The next morning, when Doc opened his eyes, the room was enlightened by the sun. There was no one in the bed, next to him. He looked in the room and spotted the whore. She was sitting in a chair, by the window, looking at the street underneath it. Doc figured out she was still here because she was waiting for him to pay her for her services of last night.

"So, how much do I owe you, darlin'?" he asked with a hoarse voice. His lungs still ached from last night, and talking made the pain even stronger.

She didn't answered right away, still looking out through the window. He waited patiently. After all, he had time to lose, he had no dental appointments to attend to anymore...

"What's your name?" she asked finally looking at him. Doc noticed her accent.

"Do we really have to bother ourselves with names, darlin'? I don't suppose I'll see you again anyway..."

"I'm Kate," she answered, determined. She wanted to know his name, Doc could feel it. But he wouldn't introduce himself to a lady from a bed. That simply wasn't worthy of a southern gentleman. He unsteadily got up, put on his trousers, poured himself a drink of bourbon and drowned it to ease his chest pain. Then he looked at the whore, slightly bowed and smiled. "John Henry Holliday, at your service, ma'am." He strengthened his Georgian slurred accent to make his introduction even more gentleman-like.

She laughed, amused by his uncommon manners and touched by his charms. "You're not from around these parts, boy. Where are you from?"

He coughed and lit up a cigarette. "You're not from around here, either. Not even from this country. Something like Romania would be my guess, but I am not so very familiar with these parts."

"Close. I'm from Hungary. I came here in 1860 with my parents and my sister."

"And were are they now?"

"In the past. I live in the present. And the present is here, with you." Doc understood where she was getting at.

"What do you want from me, Kate?" he asked, suspicious, sensing the girl had a plan.

"I want to spend my life with you," she answered at once.

Doc frowned. "Isn't this a little hasty? We just met."

"I know, but ever since I laid eyes on you, I knew there was something. And you did too, I saw it."

"Aren't you a prostitute?"

"What if I am?"

"You would want me to live with you, knowing that you'll spend your days with tens of others men?"

"I'd quit."

"What?"

"I'd stop being a whore, I don't care. I just want you to protect me and care for me. I want to travel with you."

"Who said I'll leave this town?"

"Oh, come on. The two of us, we're alike. We're two of a kind. We both know such dirty town ain't the kind to keep you. We both know you'll get a move on, sooner or later."

Damn, that girl _was_ special. And this special was terribly attractive to Doc. He rushed to her, kissed her, lifted her off the floor and put her gently on the bed, ready for more action.

Once they both were out of breath and exhausted, Doc rested his head on the pillow, sweaty. She put her head on his bare and pale shoulder. She could hear him having trouble breathing. She gently put her hand on his chest to feel his apparently sick lungs. He closed his eyes, wishing the pain would finally go away, now that his chest was covered by this refined and loving hand... It didn't. She could feel his chest vibrate whenever he breathed. Obviously, something was wrong with his lungs. The way he looked, physically, backed her theory up: the man was ill. This illness of his appeared to be dreadful and painful.

"What's wrong, John Henry?" she asked shyly, hoping her daring question wouldn't drive him mad. Some men hated to talk about heir weaknesses...

"Doc..." he gasped, still out of breath.

"What?"

"Call me Doc. Everyone else does." Being called John Henry by a woman remembered him too much of his dear mother or his lost love, Mattie...

"Alright, Doc. What's wrong with your lungs?" She asked again, surprised that, even she, did not have the right to call him by his own name.

"Consumption."

The dreadful word ached his own ears. He feared it would drive Kate away. But if she was willing to share his life, she had to know.

She suddenly felt morose. Sad and helpless for the young man who now was dying under her eyes. She had not imagined something so tragic. She caressed his hair and cheek. She knew Doc was doomed to die a young man in excruciating pain.

He opened his eyes and looked at the woman in his arms. "Aren't you going to run away?" he asked, surprised to see she was still here, caressing him.

"Of course not..." she whispered, as if she was about to cry. On the instant she had laid eyes on him, she had fallen in love with him. Knowing he was already dying and that she would lose him eventually was difficult for her to bear.

He genuinely smiled to her. No false smile, this time. He had found her very attractive since the moment he had seen her, but this answer she had just given had made him feel deeply attached to her. He felt he owed her to love her in order to thank her for accepting to live with a "lunger". No one else ever did, once they knew of his disease. Consumptive were outcasts. He was more than willing to spend his remaining days with a lovely woman who accepted him as he was, rather than living all alone and dying in the same way.

"Well, darlin', I feel fascinating times lie ahead of us. Prepare yourself for the most thrillin' years of your life," he said, smiling and he kissed her passionately.

* * *

**Author's note**: Here was chapter 3. I would very much like to know what you thought of it. While writing it, I have Val kilmer as Doc in my head. Do you guys think he his well-rendered here? I will start working on chapter 4 momentarely, so your comments would be most welcome to help me write it.

As for Keat's poem, I thought that if Doc likes Chopin, he must like Keats. Tuberculars too... Besides, Keats' dramatic poetry illustrate Doc's life pretty well, I think.

I read that the letters John Henry Holliday (the real one) wrote to his cousin, Mattie, had been destroyed because their content was not suitable for a nun (which she became some years later, knowing he would not come back to her and Georgia). I thought I could use this in my story to add some drama and tragic romance. What did you think of it?

Thank you very much for reading me and I hope I'll hear from you soon. See you in chapter 4!


	4. The Sheriff and the Gambler

4. The Marshal and the gambler

He was watching her waltzing gracefully at the rhythm of the music. He could never get tired of observing her, there were too many things in her he found fascinating. He knew she was the one. No other women in the world could make him feel the way he felt about her. And he was so happy she felt the same way towards him... She was dancing with a young man from Atlanta. John Henry didn't mind too much, he knew he could trust her, she was faithful. He would allow the young gentleman a dance, then would go to them and claim his cousin back. He would have the next dance.

"I'll say, that little Martha Ann, she's really something!" John Henry heard. A group of young men were standing next to the buffet table. They were all looking at Mattie and her dancing partner with looks of envy. No, no, John Henry could not let them develop any desire towards _his_ cousin. No one but him would have her.

"That's for sure. But you know, I believe she's already in love..." one of the men answered.

"What do you mean?" another asked, surprised.

"William's right, Joe," a fourth continued. " Mattie has a crush on her cousin John Henry."

"Her cousin? How in hell? How d'you know that, Robert?"

"I heard of it, it's pretty well know, now, although they try hard to hide it, they are promised to one another, I believe."

"But... that's... disgusting!"

"Indeed, they're family..."

"So, what about the children? I hear consanguinity turns children into monsters..."

"Hold on your horses, boys," the one who seemed the oldest stopped them. A marriage between cousins isn't that seldom, nowadays. The war's destroyed many a southern family. It is a way to try and reconstruct it."

"Still, it's unhealthy!"

"What d'you think of John Henry, by the way?" William asked.

"He's very handsome!" a young girl interrupted them. "And has many manners, unlike you, boys! I've been hearing your conversation from the other end of the room! You might want to keep it down. Mattie and John Henry are here, this evenin'"

"A wise advice indeed, Mary," John Henry suddenly said, appearing behind her. The men all blushed at once, ashamed. "Gentlemen," John Henry went on, "may I suggest, next time, you make sure no one might overhear your discussions, fascinating as they may be." He then softly bowed and went to the dance floor to join his Mattie.

"My darling, may I have this dance?" he asked, bowing and offering her his arm. Smiling, she took it after thanking her former partner.

They began waltzing slowly, evolving through the room among the many couples. They smiled at each other, their eyes filled with love for one another. He wished the night would go on forever, that nothing would end this happy and peaceful moment they were sharing.

She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Come back to me, John Henry, I miss you..." A tear rolled down her cheek and she smiled softly at him.

Then it all became blurry and John Henry opened his eyes in an unfamiliar place. He coughed and realized the terribly painful truth; he had been dreaming. He wasn't home anymore. He hated to dream of his home, for it made his current life in this unfriendly west all the more difficult to bear and it made him terribly nostalgic.

"Who's Mattie?" he heard.

He turned around in his bed and saw an already dressed Kate, looking at him.

"Where are you going?" he asked in a hoarse voice. The throat ached.

"I'm goin' to work. Since you haven't won a dime last night, someone has to pay the room. It ain't free."

"What do you mean _work_? What kind of work?" he asked, sitting.

"Well what d'you think?" The tone in her voice made it very clear to Doc that she was upset and in a bad mood.

"What's wrong?" Doc asked, displeased by her tone.

"Nothing's wrong. Nothing's ever wrong, with you! Stop playing the innocent all the time, will ya?" she began shouting. "You're always pretendin' you're so clean, the perfect gentleman!"

"What's goin' on, Kate?" he asked again, since he had not gotten a clear explanation.

"You should stop drinkin' so damn much is what's goin' on! Damn southerner!"

"Just what do you mean by stop drinking?"

She looked hard at him. "I mean you're not even able to satisfy me in bed anymore! You goddamn drunk!"

Then it all came back to Doc's mind. Last night, he had indeed been unable to perform any lovemaking in bed. And he realized it had been so for the last few days. But he knew the alcohol wasn't the only responsible for it: his health was terrible and he felt exhausted as soon as he woke up in the morning. No amount of sleep could suffice to rest him. He had barely enough strength to stand up, much less spend the nights making love to his woman...

"And that's why you're goin' to play the whore all day?" He asked, somewhat offended and embarrassed by what she had just said.

"Well, if you can't give me pleasure, others will!" she said coldly before slamming the door behind her.

Doc sat motionless in his bed. He was cold, as he always was, although it was a sunny spring day. He opened the drawer of his night table and took out the small book in it. He opened it and the page revealed a photography of Mattie. The quality wasn't very good, but it was a little bit of home. The book also contained a photo of his dear late mother along with several poems of Keats, Coleridge or Lord Byron, some lyrics he had written by memory and letters from home. He kept this book hidden from Kate, for he did not wish to share his memories of the South with her. This book was private, and only he could ever have access to it.

Sighing, he put the photo back in the book and placed it back in the night table before getting dressed. Kate was right, they had to earn money to pay for the room and meal.

* * *

"So, what's it gonna be, Holliday? Ya've been simperin' for hours. I'm getting' awful tired of your play-actin'!"

Doc simply looked at the man, a false smile appearing on his pale lips. "I'm in," he finally said throwing his chips in the pot. They now played for $200, a nice sum which Doc truly needed. As he looked deep in the eyes of his opponent, he was composed and calm, unlike the other who looked desperately nervous and stressed. Such men simply shouldn't play poker, Doc tought.

"Show your hand, Rudabaugh," Doc ordered.

Dave Rudabaugh did as he was told. He had three kings.

"A nice hand indeed," Doc commented.

"Show yours, now, come on!"

Doc revealed an aces full.

"Goddamn you!" Rudabaugh yelled, standing up at once.

"You're out of money, Rudabaugh," one of the players said. "Get home, now, before you get into trouble!"

"Shut up, old timer! Holliday, you son of a bitch!"

"What a nice vocabulary you have, Dave!" Doc said, staring at the man standing opposite him.

"Holliday, you don't wanna get on my nerves!"

"Don't I?"

"Shut up!" Rudabaugh made a motion to reach for his gun, but a shot was fired behind him, which made everyone in the saloon duck in surprise.

"That's it, now, you boys get outta here!" the town sheriff ordered the players at Doc's table. They did as they were told, including Rudabaugh, and Doc gathered his winnings.

"Hello handsome," a beautiful young woman said, caressing his neck. She took his cigarette off his mouth and took a puff. "Looking for some action?"

He looked at her, smiling. "I don't see why not!" Knowing that Kate was doing the same with men, he would not have to feel guilty for being with another woman. Besides, this was a good thing, he would make sure he was still able to satisfy a woman, for Kate had somewhat ashamed him, that morning.

"You're very pretty!" the whore said, looking at his naked body. She was beautiful too and lust immediately invaded Doc's body when he saw her naked. They laid down on the bed, prepared to share a tender moment of love.

* * *

Doc Holliday was on his own, playing solitaire to kill time. God knew how life out west could be boring when there were no big games of poker or when one had no occupation. And Doc had none.

"I'd like a coffee, please," Doc heard a man order at the bar. Coffee? How unusual... He thought without looking up at the man who had just entered. Doc turned a jack of diamonds, and it ended the game. Damn, he thought, I abhor solitaires... The most boring game you've ever played. No fun in it, since there's no challenge, no money...

"Sorry to interrupt your game."

Doc looked up. The coffee man was standing in front of him. He bore one of the thickest mustaches Doc had ever seen -and which reminded him a bit of Wild Bill's- and had a tin badge on his chest.

"I'm Wyatt Earp."

Doc did not respond, still looking at the stranger. He had heard of Wyatt Earp, of course. Who hadn't? But had difficulty knowing what a lawman would want from him, if not money to pay a gambling fine, as gambling was often forbidden by the law. Doc thought it would be best to surrender, the fine would be smaller than otherwise. Besides, there was just something about this man -in his eyes?- that fascinated Doc.

"Guilty as charge, Sheriff," Doc said, setting his deck of cards on the table. "What's it gonna be? 10 dollars fine?"

"Oh no, nothing like that. I'm looking for a man and I've been told to ask you about him, that you may know where he is."

"Oh, well that's good news. And who might that man be?" he asked, drinking a sip of whisky.

"Dave Rudabaugh. You seen him?"

"Indeed I have. About a week ago."

"Any idea where he went?"

"Actually yes, but why would I tell you? I've heard of you, Wyatt Earp. You've made yourself quite a reputation in small towns as a peace officer."

"I've heard about you too, Mister Holliday. And I know you're not well-known for helping out the law, but you seem to be the only one to know where he is, and I need this information."

Doc smiled. Was the sheriff implying some sort of threat? "You're lucky, Sheriff. As a matter of fact I also happen to loathe Dave Rudabaugh, and nothing would please me more than to see the poor soul behind bars or, God forbid, even worse, his neck crushed by a noose." He coughed then drank more whisky. "He went in the direction of Wichita Falls, hoping to reach Oklahoma within the week. I suggest your ride hard to catch him, Sheriff."

Wyatt smiled at the frail young southerner. He bowed his head slightly. "Thanks. I'm in debt to you. You can call me Wyatt." He held out his hand.

Doc scrutinized the sheriff a little while longer, then smiled and shook Wyatt's hand. "And you can call me Doc."

"What about your real name?"

"I've buried it a long time ago."

Wyatt looked at him, puzzled. That man seemed fascinating and he found himself hoping he would encounter Doc Holliday again in the future. "Well, thanks for the help, Doc. You have a good day," he said, putting his hat back on his head.

"And a happy hunting to you, Wyatt!"


End file.
